


their watch of wond'ring love

by Quilly



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Aziraphale and Crowley Lose A Baby (Again), Bickering, Christmas, Multi, Nativity Retelling, The Three Wise Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21606241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley were there for the first Christmas, after all. It went a little differently than how it was written.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 88





	their watch of wond'ring love

**Author's Note:**

> Thanksgiving is over so MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS, IT'S HAPPY WINTER TIME NOW. Enjoy this bit of holiday fluff I couldn't get out of my head! It's a bit blasphemous, maybe, but that's Good Omens all over, so.

Snow fell thick and heavy outside the windows of Jasmine Cottage, and inside was as warm and cozy as a Christmas card—just as the Antichrist had always made it, unaware of it as he was. Adam claimed he no longer had anything to do with the weather—and as far as Aziraphale could tell, that was true—but there was a certain satisfaction in the child’s face nonetheless as Newt returned, plastered with snow, to announce that it was quite the blizzard outside and it wouldn’t be safe to go out in it.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale and lifted one of his hands in a snapping formation, and after a moment Aziraphale shook his head. He was having a lovely time, all things considered; the Them were engaging and Anathema was a delight. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask Crowley if he wanted to leave, and Crowley shrugged and lounged back into the loveseat with his mug of cider.

“You all should call your parents and make sure they know you’ll be staying a little longer than planned,” Anathema said, and Wensleydale proudly whipped out his new mobile, which he had been nattering on about all evening and had only stopped under pain of Pepper-related death. “There’s still plenty of food and drinks in the kitchen if you kids want.”

The sitting room was pleasantly dim, between the fire in the fireplace and the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, and Aziraphale felt himself lulled into a rare moment of drowsiness sitting on the loveseat with Crowley’s arm pressed against his own. There was goodwill and a certain sense of peace palpable in the air, soothing as any cozy blanket, and Aziraphale only jolted back to consciousness when he heard his name.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Aziraphale asked, covering his mouth when a yawn escaped him.

“I said,” Adam said, with the long-suffering air of a boy made to repeat himself, “why don’t you and Uncle Crowley tell us some stories, while we’re stuck here?”

“Stories?” Aziraphale asked. “What—what kind of stories?”

“Somebody knows we’ve got more than our fair share, angel,” Crowley said, quietly so only Aziraphale could really hear.

“Christmas stories!” Wensleydale chirped.

“That would work. It’s the season, after all,” Brian said, quite logically.

“Christmas stories,” Aziraphale mused, and Crowley leaned forward, already smiling and setting his mug aside. Aziraphale knew that particular smile and sighed.

“Where to start, where to start,” Crowley said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve been there for every Christmas there ever was, you know.”

“Well, Christmas is quite a new thing, all things considered,” Aziraphale countered. “There were four thousand years of not-Christmases to consider before that, and other kinds of holidays all around the world before and after—”

“Like Saturnalia,” Crowley said wistfully. “Lord, but I miss Saturnalia.”

“Nothing like a good reversal festival, is there?” Aziraphale chuckled. “Oh, do you remember that one time—”

“With the wine river in that one bloke’s villa?” Crowley finished, and Aziraphale thrilled at the very specific smile Crowley shot him over the tops of his glasses. “Hard to forget.”

Aziraphale bit his lip as he smiled back, half-lost in the memory, before remembering where he was and in whose company. “Oh, goodness me, that’s hardly an age-appropriate story.”

“Maybe one day, we’ll tell you lot about it,” Crowley said over the chorus of protest. Settled on the arm of Newt’s armchair, Anathema smiled into her mug and caught Aziraphale’s eye, and he blushed without quite knowing why.

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale coughed. “There’s also Chanukah, of course, and Yule, and all manner of solstice celebrations, like Dongzhi and Shab-e Yalda and—”

“I think they get the point, angel,” Crowley interrupted.

“Were you there for the first one?” Adam asked, and Aziraphale smiled.

“We were, indeed,” Aziraphale said, and glanced at Crowley. “We almost weren’t.”

“I said it before, and I will say it again, it’s your fault for not asking directions sooner,” Crowley snipped, falling into the familiar pattern of a millennia-old argument.

“I wouldn’t have needed to ask for directions if _someone_ wasn’t causing mischief and distracting me from my duties,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Why, angel, I had no idea I was so very distracting,” Crowley smirked, and Aziraphale playfully smacked him on the arm.

“You knew very well what you were doing, you old serpent—”

“What’s the story?” Pepper interrupted loudly, and Aziraphale glanced at her before looking back at Crowley.

“Well, my dear, which of us should start?” he asked.

“You start,” Crowley said, leaning into his corner of the loveseat and stretching his legs onto Aziraphale’s lap. “I’ll chip in when you get something wrong.”

“My memory is impeccable,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Let’s see…we should probably start about nine months before the night in question…”

.

**Nazareth, roughly 1 BC**

Aziraphale was happily minding his own business, thank you very much, not at all casually keeping an eye on the street where just four houses down a Very Important Announcement was being made. Heaven had been jumpy of late, oddly joyful (and wasn’t that blasphemy itself, to suggest Heaven was anything _but_ joyful, but, if the sandal fit…). He was determined to fulfil his angelic post to the letter on this occasion. Something was _happening_. He could feel it.

Apparently, so could the Other Side; Aziraphale was maybe halfway through his latest visual sweep when the demon Craw—

.

“Crowley,” Crowley interrupted, loudly and pointedly.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, “at the time—”

“No, I don’t want that name out in the open like that,” Crowley said tightly. “If you get to say you were doing your angelic duty,” and here he paused with a meaningful look that completed the rest of the sentence with ‘ _instead of what you were really doing, which was eating a bowl of dates and drinking wine’_ before he continued verbally, “then I get to say I was Crowley. I was, technically. Just. Didn’t have the name yet.”

“You had a different name?” Brian asked curiously.

“Course I did, Crowley isn’t the most angelic name, is it,” Crowley snorted. Aziraphale patted his knee and let his hand linger there until the tension unwound from Crowley’s shoulders.

“If you insist, dearest,” Aziraphale said mildly, and took a proper moment to appreciate Crowley’s scarlet face before continuing his tale.

.

Yes, well. Rather. Aziraphale had just finished his latest visual sweep of the street when the demon Crowley popped up on his left, startling him badly enough to drop his bowl of dates, which he looked down at mournfully as the clay shattered and the dates went sprawling in the dust.

“Angel,” Crowley greeted, and with a careless snap the bowl and dates were returned to Aziraphale’s hand, no harm done. “Can smell the holiness halfway across town. What’s all this, then?”

“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea,” Aziraphale said, fussing over the dates to make sure no dust had stuck. (None had, because the demon Crowley is extremely good at his job and also incredibly handsome.) (Not that Aziraphale had at all noticed.) (Of course not, angel.) “You’d best keep a low profile, though, I think Gabriel’s still in the area.”

“Gabriel?” Crowley flinched and ducked behind Aziraphale’s back, looking over his shoulders this way and that as if Gabriel was hiding behind a fencepost and had been waiting for that exact moment to make his entrance. “What’s that [redacted] want?”

(“Mr. Aziraphale, we know what that word means.”)

“I’m not sure, exactly,” Aziraphale replied. “It’s all very hush-hush. Heaven’s awfully excited about it.”

“Think Hell’s getting itself whipped up in a tizzy, too,” Crowley said, circling behind Aziraphale warily. “I’m to be right under Herod’s nose here soon.”

“You’re a bit out of your way,” Aziraphale replied.

“Well, hard to miss when something large like this is happening, isn’t it?” Crowley said. “Whatever ‘this’ is. You’re sure you don’t know?”

“Gabriel’s been sent here to talk to a young lady,” Aziraphale said in a low voice (after the appropriate amount of hemming and hawing about dropping such sensitive information to an agent of the enemy, but really, Crowley wasn’t that bad, and it should be noted that the story would move faster without such little intervals detailing the exact process of Aziraphale’s thoughts on the matter.) (It should also be noted that it would go faster without constant interruption.) (If the tale were being told correctly in the first place—)

.

“Are you going to tell us the story, or are you going to bicker all night?” Pepper asked irritably. Aziraphale blinked at her. Crowley, behind him, huffed a little laugh.

“Point taken,” Crowley said, and slurped his drink. “Go on, angel. I’ll only interrupt when you get something very seriously wrong.”

“I’m not going to,” Aziraphale said irritably, and held onto his irritation for all of sixty seconds as Crowley’s hand started idly tracing patterns across Aziraphale’s jumper-clad back. “Anyway. Where was I…”

.

“Gabriel’s been sent to talk to a young lady,” Aziraphale said in a low voice. “From what I can gather, she’s going to have a baby.”

“A baby?” Crowley frowned. “What’s so special about a baby? Humans have them all the time.”

“Not sure,” Aziraphale shrugged. “Wasn’t in my briefing.”

Crowley was silent for a while, snagging a date from Aziraphale’s bowl before speaking again. “This got anything to do with that priest who got struck dumb a few months ago?”

“Do you know, I think it might,” Aziraphale said. “Barren wife, priest struck dumb—Gabriel was a bit impatient with him, I thought.”

“Wanker,” Crowley grumbled again. Aziraphale harrumphed in the face of blasphemy and sipped from his wineskin. “Who’s the lucky father, then?”

“Oh, so you’ve figured it out, have you?” Aziraphale beamed. Crowley scowled at him.

“I think I can be forgiven for not knowing the specifics of it all three thousand years ago,” Crowley said sourly. (Yes, there was a story there. No, they were not going to get into it now, even though, really, Crowley had been in the Garden of Eden too—but later, later, this story first.) “Answer the question.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “All I know is that there’s a young lady, and she’s to have a baby, and Heaven is pretty keen on it happening according to Plan.”

“Right, ‘course,” Crowley yawned. “Well, I’m off. Have fun guarding your street, angel.”

“Goodbye, Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

.

“So you were both there when Gabriel told Mary she was having a baby?” Adam asked.

“In a roundabout way, yeah,” Crowley replied, still needling Aziraphale’s back with his nails after the comment about his lapse of reproductive knowledge. “Important bit didn’t happen until later, but I suppose the story could start from the moment of holy conception or whatever.”

“Was it really an immaculate conception?” Wensleydale asked, and Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other.

“Don’t look at me, how would I know?” Crowley grumped. “I barely know how it works the regular way, if you ask _you_ —”

“‘You still have one of them,’ those were the exact words—”

“Okay!” Anathema said loudly, and Crowley and Aziraphale shut up, looking at her, bewildered. Anathema smiled and leaned further into Newt’s side from her perch on the arm of his chair. “How about you pick back up closer to the day?”

“Yes, alright,” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. “Let’s…let’s fast-forward to the night of, that was exciting.”

.

**Bethlehem, about 0 BC/AD**

Aziraphale, on the night of, had been more or less informed of what was happening: the Son of God (the legitimacy of that title was still up for debate, but regardless of if his actual DNA matched God’s or not, Heaven was still quite a bit involved in his life, and that was important) was to be born in the tiny little town of Bethlehem, and his unfortunate earthly parents were going to have quite a time of it getting lodging in the city, with the census upon them. No instructions had been given, but Aziraphale had thought it would be a nice gesture to rent out an entire inn in preparation for their arrival.

This plan hinged on not only generosity, but on communication, which, as the night came on and there was still no pregnant woman and her husband sitting in the inn’s common room, Aziraphale was beginning to worry he’d mucked up somehow.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said, getting the attention of the one barmaid still working the nearly-empty room, “but has there been a young lady by yet? In a, ah, delicate condition, accompanied by her husband?”

“Been a couple, far as I can tell,” the barmaid told him. “We’ve had to turn ‘em all out, since you bought up all the rooms.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, his heart thumping in his chest and pleasant mood souring significantly. “Oh, I see. Um. Jolly good.”

“Right,” the barmaid said, and got back to whatever she was doing (pacing, it looked like). Aziraphale chewed on his lip. Oh, dear. It seemed he’d made a mess of things.

And where there was a mess, there was a Crowley, it seemed, swooping in from God-knew-where to plop down on Aziraphale’s left, sighing loudly.

“You look depressed, angel,” Crowley said, not bothering to hide his own exaggeratedly sad face. Aziraphale frowned at him. “What’d you do, then? Smudge a scroll? Not tip quite as well as usual?”

“I think I may have accidentally turned the Son of God out into the street,” Aziraphale said, and whatever Crowley had been moping about before evaporated from his shoulders as he drew himself up, butter-yellow eyes dancing in the firelight as a wicked grin lit up his face.

“You never,” Crowley said, and when Aziraphale looked him fully in the face, Crowley laughed. “You did! It’s all over your—you look miserable!”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale hissed, his fingers weaving together. “Oh, this is—Gabriel’s going to be so cross with me—”

“Not if you fix it first,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale frowned.

“Fix it how?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well, you go find the poor girl carrying him around, of course,” Crowley said, indicating the inn doorway. “Bring her back here, she gives birth in a nice clean warm inn, Aziraphale’s a hero, Gabriel isn’t cross. Easy as pie.”

“I suppose I could do that,” Aziraphale said, his eyes still narrowed. “Very good of you to suggest it.”

Crowley’s expression snarled up. “Don’t say that,” he grimaced. “Truth be told, I’m looking for her, too. Him. Them. The—the whole family unit. Son of God and all.”

“You? Why?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly alarmed at the thought of having to actually detain his adversary—or worse, stop him.

“Hell wants eyes on the little bleeder, of course,” Crowley said, and stood. “There, now, we have a common goal. You need to find him, I need to find him, we work together, and we both find him. Easy.”

“No,” Aziraphale said sharply. “I’m not leading Hell straight to—it’s out of the question!”

“Angel,” Crowley said, “we can argue this round and round all night, or we can work together and actually find him before, I dunno, she gives birth in the middle of the street or something. I’m not here to hurt him. Promise.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, but the thought of that poor young lady giving birth in the street or some other unsanitary place was a good motivator, and Crowley didn’t seem particularly wile-ful tonight. He sighed. “Alright. But if you make one wrong move, Crowley—”

“Cross my heart, hope to—well, discorporate, at least,” Crowley rolled his eyes, and together the two of them set out into the crowded streets of Bethlehem.

.

“So you’re the reason why Mary gave birth in a stable?” Newt asked, and Aziraphale couldn’t have fought the flush of shame in his cheeks if he tried.

“I…I was, at that,” Aziraphale said. “I didn’t mean to!”

“S’alright, angel,” Crowley said quietly, his fingers back to gently tracing patterns on Aziraphale’s back. It felt a bit like he was drawing hearts. “Some humans predicted that, you know.”

“What, that a foolish angel would rent out an entire inn and make the Son of God homeless before he was even born?” Aziraphale said tiredly.

“No, the whole stable and manger bit,” Crowley said. “I mean. Could’ve had a stable and manger in the inn, I suspect, but bit more obvious to have them where you’d expect.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully.

“So you lost the Christ _and_ the Antichrist, between the two of you?” Adam asked with a giant smile, and Aziraphale had to bite his lip against his smile as Crowley spluttered loudly and with prejudice.

“Neither one of them was technically our fault,” Crowley finally spit. “It was—”

“Ineffable, my dear?” Aziraphale interrupted, and Crowley scowled at him so fiercely Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh.

“Did you find him?” Brian asked.

“We did,” Aziraphale nodded. “After quite a bit of searching. Was the middle of the night before we did, as I recall.”

“Oh, don’t skip the good bit,” Crowley grinned, somehow managing to drape his leg across the arm of the loveseat with even more disregard for the human spine than usual. “Sure, you can skip the part where we ran through Bethlehem like chickens with our heads cut off—”

“You want me to jump in when we met—”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale smiled, and turned back to his captive (though perhaps not quite in the sense he’d intended) audience.

.

It was the middle of the night, Crowley and Aziraphale were both hot and irritable with each other, and Aziraphale was no closer to finding the Son of God. Bethlehem was crammed into as many buildings as it could, spilling out into the alleyways and on the streets where they couldn’t fit (or afford to fit; Aziraphale hoped he’d remembered to let the innkeeper know he could rent out more rooms, so long as one was reserved for him and the guests he hoped to be bringing soon).

“We’re never going to find him like this,” Crowley said for the fifth time, and Aziraphale gritted his teeth.

“Perhaps we _could_ if _someone_ would stop insisting on leading the way—”

“I’m not _leading_ , I am _suggesting_ we ask around rather than treating this like a covert ops mission!” Crowley hissed, and then hissed in an altogether different emotion as the door to an establishment was thrown open and Crowley was bowled backwards into Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale caught him and steadied him and there was absolutely not a moment where they looked into each other’s eyes with a mixture of surprise, amazement, and maybe a little starry-eyed secret pleasure, because surely the moment didn’t last all that long, anyway, Crowley pressed up against Aziraphale’s chest and holding his shoulders for support, and Aziraphale with his arms around Crowley’s waist holding him steady and upright. That did not happen at all, and would be contested in holding a place of honor in either angel or demon’s secret heart, because the door had been thrown open to emit a surprisingly well-dressed man being tossed into the street like a common beggar and that was certainly more interesting than two immortal people holding each other and turning red like inexperienced youths confronted with their first crush being in close proximity.

Crowley and Aziraphale let go of each other with harrumphing and straightening of robes and clearing of throats, and not a single stolen glance in each other’s direction as the man finding himself on the street groaned.

“Dreadful—dreadful business, people not looking where they’re going,” Aziraphale said with a higher voice than usual, and approached the man. “Sir? Are you alright?”

“Mmmm’fine,” the man slurred, and Aziraphale wrinkled his nose as the overpowering smell of drink wafted up from the man. “Say—say, you fine gents need some—some frankincense?”

.

“Now, hold on,” Pepper interrupted.

“Yes, actually, hold on,” Wensleydale added, “did he really call you gents?”

“Listen,” Crowley said testily, “when you’ve been around as long as we have, things sort of…bleed together. He might’ve called us gents, or whatever the equivalent was in his language, but the important thing is that we’re speaking English, technically, and ‘gents’ fit his general tone of voice. Are we all clear on that?”

After a beat of silence, Adam snorted. “Technically?”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, straightening his jumper. “If we’re done with the interruptions…?”

.

“Careful, angel,” Crowley warned, looming over Aziraphale’s shoulder and glaring as the drunk man pulled himself to his feet. “I’ve heard things about this.”

“What, frankincense?” Aziraphale frowned. “I hate to tell you this, dear boy—”

“No,” Crowley snorted. “Traveling door-to-door salesman.” He lowered his voice. “Accounting’s all excited about the idea. Didn’t know it had made it up here already.”

“I’m not hearing a no,” the salesman hinted, swaying on his feet and hiccupping. “M’name’s Caspar.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “Well, Mr. Caspar, it’s been fun, but we’re rather in a hurry, so—”

“Where’s the fire?” Caspar asked, and apparently thought it was hilarious and laughed uproariously. When Aziraphale and Crowley just looked at him, he coughed and sighed. “Augh. Funny joke. Don’t think the pregnant lady liked it, either.”

“Pregnant lady?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“Big,” Caspar burped, indicating the approximate size of the pregnant belly in question (he was off by several inches). “Looked in a hurry, so I asked where’s the fire, and her husband didn’t—didn’t laugh, neither.”

“Do you know where she went?” Aziraphale asked. Caspar blinked blearily.

“Uh…maybe?” He belched. “Seem to remem—amemb—member the innkeep showin’ ‘em to the stable.”

“A stable!” Aziraphale cried.

“Which inn?” Crowley demanded. Caspar looked like he was falling asleep on his feet. Crowley growled and snapped, and Caspar suddenly looked much more aware and miserable. “Which inn did she go to?”

“Blugh,” Caspar whined, smacking his lips. “That didn’t take long.”

“Please, dear fellow, it’s terribly important we find her,” Aziraphale fretted, wringing his hands. “Do you remember which inn’s stable it was?”

“Might do,” Caspar winced, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Who’re you two, again?”

“Interested parties,” Crowley hissed. “Go on, I’ll buy you a drink if you help us out here.”

“Right.” Caspar dusted off his robes. “Right, alright, then. Sure. That was…maybe two inns ago, so…” Muttering to himself, Caspar trotted up the road, Crowley and Aziraphale following and glancing at each other.

“You do know where you’re going, don’t you?” Aziraphale asked after half an hour.

“’Course I do,” Caspar scoffed. “A good salesman always remembers his directions.”

“Uh-huh,” Crowley rolled his eyes. They followed Caspar for another fifteen minutes, and then Caspar shouted “aha!” and sped off in the opposite direction from where he’d been leading them.

“Back this way, lads!” Caspar said cheerfully.

“Bet you a whole jug of good wine he’s about to lead us back to the same inn,” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale shuddered.

“Surely not,” he murmured back.

“Here!” Caspar said triumphantly, throwing his arms wide. “This one! I remember, clear as day!”

Aziraphale was dismayed to see the same inn Caspar had been thrown out of. Crowley smirked.

“Oh, fine,” Aziraphale huffed. Then he cleared his throat. “Do you know where the stables are?”

“Round back,” Caspar said, and led the way through a narrow side-alley. Crowley bowed in an after-you fashion, and Aziraphale sighed.

“Would be a nice spot for a mugging or a murder,” Crowley said idly as they followed the curve of the building.

“Oh, don’t, Crowley, that’s awful,” Aziraphale shivered.

“Demon,” Crowley reminded him, then the alley opened onto a small courtyard. “Hello, what’s all this, then?”

There were rather more people in the courtyard than Aziraphale was expecting. It seemed like mostly shepherds, which was unusual.

“Just in there, I think,” Caspar pointed to the snug little two-stall stable tucked against the inn. He looked hopefully to Crowley. “About that drink…?”

Crowley didn’t answer, instead looking to Aziraphale. “Well? Reckon we should check?”

“It’s the only lead we’ve got,” Aziraphale replied, and began politely making his way through the crowd. Crowley followed, with Caspar behind them both.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured, stopping dead, and Crowley walked into him.

“What?” Crowley grumped. “Why’d you stop?”

“It’s just…” Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling tears pour down his cheeks. His entire angelic being was lighting up like a firebrand, drowning in the sudden sense of hope, and peace, and… “Love,” he choked out. In that moment, he noticed that the shepherds around him seemed to be feeling the same thing, as many of them were also crying and patting their fellows on the shoulder.

“Well, you’d hope so, if there’s a pregnant woman in there,” Crowley replied. Aziraphale thought there was a gentle, momentary touch on his arm. “Alright, angel?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and took a deep breath. “Yes. Jolly good.”

Crowley kept close behind Aziraphale as he walked the last few feet to the stable, the shepherds parting for them now, whispering that surely they were important people here to pay a visit. It was dark, and smelly, and warm, and after a moment Aziraphale’s eyes adjusted to the dim lantern light within. His breath hitched.

The first and most prominent sight was, of course, the mother, who was so heartbreakingly young—Aziraphale hadn’t known how young she was going to be, still shy of true adulthood. She was sweaty and dusty and clutching at a feeding trough like it was the only thing keeping her upright, her eyes taking in the new visitors and looking for all the world like a feral little cat protecting its young. In the shadows nearby stood the man who was presumably her husband, holding a staff like he had half a mind to use it, if anyone tried anything. And, there in the little manger, tucked in the hay and swaddled in what looked like the mother’s own spare clothes…

Aziraphale was forced to take a deep inhalation of breath to try and control his tears, and nearly choked on the smell of old horse and donkey. He shuffled to the side when Crowley made him, letting himself and, unfortunately, Caspar, in to see the little tableau. The mother glared at Aziraphale specifically, hunching a little over the manger and her sweet sleeping boy within. Aziraphale performed a subtle snap behind his back, and produced a beautifully-carved wooden box that he laid on the dirty stable floor, nearer to the manger than to himself but still with plenty of distance between himself and the babe, so as to soothe the mother’s nerves.

“Something to help you along your way,” Aziraphale said gently, knowing the scent of good-quality myrrh was about to start lacing the air with something other than animal stink, at least. “He’s…terribly important, your little one.”

“Every little one is,” Crowley said roughly, and tossed a thick canvas sack next to Aziraphale’s box offering. The sack jangled loudly in the quiet. Crowley gestured at the bag when the mother’s eyes flashed to him next. “There you go. Little insurance for the sprog’s upbringing. Or whatever.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, whose cheeks were dusted pink (they weren’t) (but they definitely were), and then at Caspar, who was blinking down at the baby with clear confusion.

“Erm. Well.” Caspar dug around in the pack strapped to his back, and pulled out a smaller box. “Something…something for the road, then?” He glanced at Aziraphale and Crowley, and edged his gift next to theirs. “Congratulations, miss.”

The mother jerked her head, her expression softer but her protective stance not budging an inch. Aziraphale bit his lip. It seemed wrong to just leave her and the child without a little more protection. He made a subtle little finger twirl that happened to bump into Crowley’s finger doing the same thing next to him, and their twin blessing settled over the stable like a warm blanket—safety, protection, luck, strength. Aziraphale very nearly grabbed Crowley’s hand just for support as they made their way back out.

“So,” Crowley said, and then grimaced when Caspar turned to him, eager-eyed. “Fine, here you go, you weasel.” He flipped Caspar a coin that would guarantee at least one more drink, and made a shooing motion towards the inn that Caspar followed with all haste. “So that’s the Son of God.”

“It…it would appear,” Aziraphale said, drying his eyes as he and Crowley exited into the street. “He was a sweet little thing, wasn’t he?”

“Thought his mother was about to rip our throats out,” Crowley chuckled, following Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s feet leading them back to the inn he’d so foolishly rented out. “Figure he’s safe enough with her there.”

“I do hope so,” Aziraphale sighed. His shoulder bumped Crowley’s. “It’s late. I think I know a place with rooms, if…if you’d like to take a load off.”

“Do you, indeed,” Crowley snorted, tossing back his hair, and honestly, truly, it was so terribly unfair when he did that, the starlight playing beautifully off his hair and eyes. Or maybe Aziraphale was being a sentimental old baggage, just a bit love-drunk from seeing an infant who was quite possibly the literal Son of God. “Lead the way, angel.”

.

“That’s it?” Brian asked. “You two just dropped off some presents and left?”

“Nativity scenes aren’t reality,” Crowley snorted. “We weren’t going to stand there for hours on end just looking at a baby. Wasn’t much to look at, anyway.”

“Hang on,” Pepper said slowly, “were you—are you the three Wise Men?”

“It did rather get conflated that way, didn’t it,” Aziraphale said, looking over at Crowley. “Nice man, that Caspar. Did you ever meet him again?”

“Never saw him at the main entrance, no,” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Why’d you give him gold?” Adam asked, looking directly at Crowley. “Did Hell tell you to?”

“Hell didn’t direct my every action,” Crowley replied. “Besides, kid was born in a barn, he needed all the help he could get.” Crowley coughed. “Erm. I mean. Greed. And encouraging…commercialism. Or something.”

“Yes, of course, dearest,” Aziraphale smiled, gently bumping Crowley with his shoulder. “That’s entirely what you were thinking. How terribly demonic of you.”

“Snow’s stopped,” Newt observed, and with a start Aziraphale realized he was right. The children crowded at the window, shouting excitedly about the fresh coat of snow glowing under the moonlight and fast-dispersing clouds. Crowley stood with a put-upon groan, cracking his back.

“Reckon that’s our cue, angel,” he said, and held out his hand to help lift Aziraphale from the loveseat. He didn’t drop Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to lace their fingers together.

They said their goodbyes and made promises of another visit, and once Crowley and Aziraphale were tucked back in the Bentley and driving as fast as Crowley dared on the icy roads (which was still faster than any sensible person would), Aziraphale sighed.

“No one ever gets Myriam right,” he said, looking out at the snow. “In the Nativities, I mean.”

“No one ever gets anyone important right,” Crowley replied. He held out his arm for Aziraphale to tuck himself under and sighed when Aziraphale complied with the unspoken wish. “I think we should tell them about Moses next. Great fun, Moses was.”

“Fun isn’t exactly the wording I would use, for that whole plague debacle,” Aziraphale chuckled, resting his hand on Crowley’s thigh and rubbing his knee with his thumb. “Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, but not in English. If any bystanders had to guess, they would have been guessing for a while before landing on the appropriate language, which would have been quite common in a place like Bethlehem around 0 AD.

Crowley’s arm tightened around him. “Love you too, angel,” he replied in kind. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, my dearest,” Aziraphale sighed, and closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I believe Neil Gaiman said something about Aziraphale buying up an entire inn on the night of Christ’s birth and forgetting to tell anyone he was expecting company. I certainly won’t take credit for it, it made me sick with secondhand embarrassment until I figured out how to salvage the situation in this fic XD
> 
> There's a book I read in elementary school called "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" by Barbara Robinson where the Christmas pageant of a small town is overrun by the local family of feral wild children, and there's a bit at the end where the narrator is describing how the girl playing Mary looked and how he thought she got it right (not a direct quote bc I can't find it but near as I remember it went like this): A bit in awe, a bit scared, ready to clobber anyone who came close to her baby. The thought always made me smile and it's stuck with me ever since.
> 
> (Also, in the novel, the entrance to Hell is paved with frozen door-to-door salesmen; I can't say whether Caspar ended up there or not, but it was a funny image to have one of the supposed Magi trying to sell people something. I would apologize for my irreverence but I'm not sorry.)


End file.
